My Body, Not Heart.
Part I: Encounter
"I'm not pretty," she said, with a cigarette between her lips and her legs swinging as she lounged on the couch, those words rolling from her mouth. "Isn't that the point of love? You don't have to be pretty to feel it?" I found myself defending her, a stranger, which felt strange, yet I've always believed it foolish to think only the beautiful deserve love.
I've always preferred sex with the lights on, reveling in the stars in my lover's eyes, the audacious moans, and the sensation of flesh under my hands. I enjoy witnessing lust. So, it felt odd when this stranger wanted the lights off. Despite only meeting her hours ago, there was an incredibly seductive aura about her, something stirring inside me. After indulging in wine and cigarettes, we found ourselves in a room, entangled in each other, but all in darkness, which wasn't enjoyable for me.
She sensed something amiss and asked. I explained my preference for lights on during lovemaking. She sighed deeply, her silhouette visible even in the darkness, her voice cracking as tears glistened. "I hate lights, I hate seeing myself, I feel embarrassed. I already told you I'm not pretty." I saw the silver of tears rolling down her cheeks, and I kissed her, feeling myself harden as we connected. It was beautiful, even in the dark, our bodies moving in rhythm, her acceptance of me evident. Even in our intimacy, I saw it all, my eyes perceiving every moment until we reached climax and fell asleep, wrapped in each other's embrace, before indulging again before dawn.
As I prepared to leave that morning, I caught a glimpse of her face in the streak of sunlight and couldn't comprehend her notion of not being beautiful. She lied; she was the most beautiful girl I'd seen. Warmth stirred within me, urging me to leave before temptation prolonged my stay.
Part II: Spite
Down the road from college, there's a quaint little coffee shop that I enjoy frequenting. It's homely and provides the perfect ambiance for contemplation, so I often spend my free time there, diligently working on my essays. I encountered her once more, a few days after our previous meeting. She was there with a few friends, lively and engaged in conversation. Our eyes met briefly, but she quickly averted hers. Mine, however, lingered, tracing the contours of her figure; what a sight she was.
I crossed paths with her several times afterward – around campus, in town, on the bus, and in the library, as well as in the coffee shop. Each time, she brushed me off, even when I attempted to greet her. I couldn't fathom what had changed. She knew who I was, and recognized me, so why the avoidance?
Months later, I spotted her in the library. Summoning every ounce of courage, I approached her. She was engrossed in reading Marie Ndiaye’s Trois femmes puissantes. I sat across from her, and though she acknowledged my presence, she continued to ignore me. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she set her book down, fixed me with a steely gaze, and asked in a hoarse voice, "What do you want from me?"
I simply inquired why she had consistently ignored me. With a stoic expression, she retorted, "We had sex once. What do you expect? A medal?" Her words hit me like a slap.
I absorbed her words as she continued, expressing her disdain. "It's amusing how you men operate. A one-night stand and suddenly you think you've conquered a person. Well, let me enlighten you: I despise you, and I hold no fondness for any man I've been with."
"Darling, it's not your fault, it's just hormones," she shrugged.
With that, she gathered her belongings and departed, the loud click of her shoes echoing in my mind. I sat there, feeling exposed, like a child caught wetting the bed. I deserved the ridicule. I had been foolish.
Part III: Re-Encounter
The Vitruvian Man is often hailed as the epitome of perfection. Yet, whenever I glance at the picture, it doesn't exude perfection to me; instead, it emanates something grotesque. I once held an image of myself as flawless until ridicule shattered that illusion. Since then, I've become a mere shadow of my former self. My confidence waned, leading me to question my perfection. Nowadays, when I peer into the mirror, I see a visage of grotesqueness staring back at me. I've refrained from frequenting places like the coffee shop or the library, anywhere that serves as a painful reminder of past taunts.
I derive immense pleasure from observing portraits; they often captivate me. The portrait gallery stands as one of my cherished haunts, and that day, an exhibition of Frans Hals paintings adorned its walls. As I indulged in the tranquillity, sketching The Gypsy Girl in my notebook, I heard a voice break the silence, "Should the viewer focus on the smiling girl or the exposed breasts?" I responded curtly, "Well, in that era, both were deemed wanton." A soft giggle escaped her lips. Glancing up, I found myself face-to-face with my nemesis.
Before I could utter a word, she had already settled beside me. "I've been searching for you. I behaved rudely the other day, and I wanted to apologize. I still do if you'll allow me?" Her gaze bore into mine. I couldn't meet her eyes, clutching my pencil fiercely against the paper, its tip shattering. Managing a strained reply, "It's alright. I deserved it too," I felt a dry lump form in my throat.
She lingered as I sketched, accompanying me through the exhibition. Upon leaving, she inquired about my plans, suggesting a nearby restaurant for further conversation. I consented. En route, our discussion meandered through Renaissance portraits and the luminaries of the era, her knowledge leaving me impressed. At the restaurant, our discourse delved into books, and classical literature, followed by philosophical and religious musings in the park. A stop at a bar on our way back to college led to animated discussions about science. I relished her company, sensing her enjoyment mirrored mine. Even upon reaching her flat, she hesitated to part ways. After a few moments of conversation outside, she invited me in for a smoke. Initially hesitant, I acquiesced. We smoked shared whiskey, conversed, and revelled in music in her backyard. As darkness enveloped us, we retreated indoors, where we kissed and made love, with the lights illuminating our shared intimacy.
Part IV: Intimacy
I awoke to the sound of birds chirping, with a sliver of sunlight peeking through the windows. Her bare hips faced me, and as I admired them, I recalled Lucille Clifton's poem Homage to my Hips. I gathered my clothes and bag, then left the room, determined to avoid the mistakes and confusion of our previous encounters both on and off campus.
One day, while at the library, she discreetly passed me a note that read, “See you at six, let’s smoke? Don’t be late.” Since then, like clockwork, we met weekly at her place, smoking and making love. Despite our attempts to appear normal in college, it was evident that something was brewing between us. We rendezvoused in the library, stealing touches when no one was watching, and snuck off to make out in the toilets. We couldn’t resist each other's bodies; it became an addiction.
Over time, I found myself developing feelings for her. The day I confessed, we had just finished making love, our bodies intertwined and sweaty. She held my chin, peering into my eyes before solemnly stating, “Darling, you’re not in love with me; you only love the idea of me.” That put an end to the conversation.
Months later, I broached the subject again. This time, she rose, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag before exhaling slowly. “I’m not permitted to have feelings for you,” she said. Though I wanted to press further, I remained silent. As she slept soundly beside me that night, I pondered her words, unable to shake their weight.
Part V: Romance
During my first year in college, we had a professor who was deeply immersed in French literature. Throughout the year, we delved into multiple texts, but one resonated with me: On Love by the 18th-century French writer, Marie-Henri Beyle (Stendhal). This novel mirrored the story of unrequited love, reflecting the author's own experiences.
I had experienced love before, several times in my short years. However, there was something different about her. Sometimes, I found myself so captivated by her eyes that my mind wandered back to the Big Bang. My feelings for her completed me. We began to meet more frequently, but our physical intimacy decreased. Instead, we cherished conversations and each other's company. As we spent more time together, I learned more about her sensitive nature. She could be deeply moved by music or a distressed animal, yet she shied away from attention and preferred to blend into the background with her hoodie and sunglasses.
As our relationship progressed, I found myself deeply committed to her, already envisioning a future together in my mind. She introduced me to her friends, and our lives intertwined seamlessly. However, despite our closeness, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease in my gut. I feared that she wasn't truly mine and that one day she would leave.
One evening, after dinner, I again broached the topic of my feelings for her. I sensed her discomfort immediately. The air grew tense as she retreated to the window, lighting a cigarette. She questioned why my love for her wasn't enough without her reciprocation. I explained that I desired her heart as well, not just her body and soul. However, she confessed that her heart belonged to another – her late husband.
Her revelation left me stunned. She had been unable to move on since his passing, and I was the first person she had allowed close to her since then. Despite her guilt and attempts to love me out of pity, she couldn't give me her heart. I realized then that I had been selfish, expecting more than she could give.
That night, I left her house engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions. The realization that I was competing against the memory of her deceased husband weighed heavily on me. Despite the turmoil, I found myself back at her doorstep the next morning, unsure of what the future held.